


Through the Forest Floor

by keycchan



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Camping, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccuracies Up The Wazoo, Injury, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:21:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: Seven lives fought; only six returned home. Now they're back — here, to where the creek runs clear, to where the trees tower like ancient giants, to where the grass whispers names of those long past, to where the forest protects its own history. Everything runs like a river; all circles come to a close.Or: a camping trip leads to some interesting discoveries, and Goody meets a friend long lost to memory and time.





	Through the Forest Floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoffeeAndTin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/gifts).



> **warning for: injuries, historical and other inaccuracies, possible grammar/spelling mistakes.**

“Jeezy fuckin’  _Petes_ , Goody, slow the fuck down!”

“No can do, Joshua,” Goodnight smirks, swinging his arms wide and beaming, “Mother Nature waits for no man!”

“Actually,” Sam Chisolm says with a cocked brow, “Pretty sure Mother Nature ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“She’s been here long before us, and she’ll be here long after we’re gone.” Jack sighs, wistfully.

“If we’re talkin’ ‘bout death ‘n dying, I vote we kill Goody first.” Joshua groans, and Goodnight only laughs.

To tell the truth, Goodnight has no idea what the rest are whining about. Sure, it’s a little early, the sun has just barely peaked over yonder horizon, but it’s a beautiful thing to rise with the sun, especially out in wilderness like  _this_.

“Ain’t it beautiful, cher?” Goody muses, moving to take hold of the hand of his beloved who’s come to stand beside him. “Simply breathtaking.”

“You have a lot of praise for a person who wouldn’t stop whining about mosquitoes during our last camping trip.” Billy points out, brow raised. “And you only got bitten by  _one_.”

“It was definitely more than one, cher,” Goody sniffs, “And you married that person, so who’s the real dummy here?”

“Boys, boys. You’re both stupid.” Sam dutifully interjects. “Now, let’s start the trek — the sooner we can set up camp, the sooner we can settle in and enjoy the trip. These old bones don’t find a whole lot of joy in hiking too long these days.”

Joshua  _stares_. “Sam, you’re barely thirty-seven.”

“Right,” Billy says, deadpan as always, “It’s Jack who is ancient.”

“ _Hey_ ,” comes the offended voice from their resident forty year old, “I’m still spry.”

There’s the sound of a car door slamming shut, and they all turn in time to see Red leave Jack’s van with an exasperated look in his eyes, bag slung over a shoulder. 

“I regret this trip already.” Red sighs from besides Horne, and Goody takes it as a sign that they should probably get their move on.

The forest before them is beautiful as they walk into it. Stunning in all its natural awe and the smell of fresh grass and dew-dropped earth, full of twisting, ancient roots and living things breathing in the ground below them. Goodnight can’t help but stare at it in wonder — the trees tower over them, a canopy of green giants and woody bark and blessed silence, making him feel small in the way he’s always adored. It’s all so refreshing, a step back from the grit and grime of the city, away from the smell of exhaust smoke so acrid it reminds him of his tours, the eyes of too many upon him and judging.

And — though he doesn’t want to say it, fears he’ll be called ridiculous for it — coming here feels like coming  _home_. Which is odd, considering he’s rather sure that none of them have been here before. But still — the ground they tread feels all too familiar, the brush of grass against his pants like a touch he’s felt intimately, the sound of the trees rustling in the breeze like a song he’s heard sung before.

But he doubts any of it means anything. Knows for sure that Billy will roll his eyes and (fondly) call his poetic ramblings ridiculous if he spoke out about it, so he keeps it to himself as he walks through. It’s not like it’s the first time his head has been plagued by odd thoughts anyway — dreams of deserts and dead-eyed people, his oddly specific ornithophobia, churches with bells making him intensely uncomfortable for reasons he’s never known — and so far, his life is doing well without him thinking too hard about it. He can keep this to himself — maybe it’s just the forest being just that stunning to him, so much so that he feels welcomed by it.

Though, as he looks at his companions around him, he thinks that perhaps he’s not the only one who feels that way. All of them, each and every single one, look in some degree of awe at the glory around them — even Joshua, who claims fresh air gives him hives every time they go hiking or camping, whistles low at the sight around them.

“Well shit, guys,” Joshua says, hiking his bag higher on his shoulder, “You picked a helluva place. I’m surprised we never came here before.”

Sam shrugs. “Well, we’ve tried different places to camp before. Just seems like Goody picked a good one for us this time ‘round.”

Joshua smirks, cocking a brow at Goodnight. “Yeah? Our old tramplin’ grounds not good enough after you ‘n your sweetheart came back from the anniversary in Mexico?”

Goodnight  _laughs_ , though his cheeks warm a little at the memory. It was a  _very_  good anniversary, to an even better nine years of marriage. As if reading his thoughts, Billy squeezes his hand, and Goody can’t help but look over at him with a softness in his eyes, smile breaking warm across his face before he can even think about it. Billy smiles right back, and intertwines their fingers. Somewhere to their left, Joshua gags.

“Our old campgrounds were fine, Joshua,” Goody takes pity on their younger friend, turning to the Irishman (though he keeps his hand in Billy’s), “Was just as Jack’s office for lunch a couple of weeks back, ended up finding this place by chance while perusin’ one of his many wilderness books sittin’ on his desk. I figured it wasn’t too long a ride, the few pictures in the book looked great, the reviews were amazing — so why not?”

“It’ll be even better when we get there,” Red pipes up, surprising all three of them, “This place has history.”

Billy raises a brow. “You’ve been here before?”

Red shakes his head, returning the look. “No. But I have... heard of it, from my grandfather. Never been, but he has.”

“Then onwards we go,” Goody declares, and happily accepts the amused peck Billy offers him.

“Eugh, gross —  _whoof_!” Joshua grunts as Red elbows him in the side.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the trek is largely uneventful, and Goodnight grows to love the forest even more as he walks on down. This is hardly their first rodeo — ever since they met years and years ago, they’ve made it a regular thing to head out someplace together. Usually it’s the beach, what with Billy and Joshua’s love for the ocean (despite the latter’s trend of getting redder than a lobster) and the rest of them enjoying the peace of it all, but other times they go camping, or mountain hiking. It’s a good group bonding experience, for sure, and Goodnight appreciates being given the opportunity to go outside and clear his head.

The path is peaceful, and Goody admires the trees above them, the grass below, the occasional wild animal that comes bounding past. Horne talks at length about the kind of flora and fauna surround them as they pass by — once a professor, always a professor — and Red chimes in where he can. (Goody figures that Red will surpass Horne in terms of wilderness knowhow in a couple of years — he’d already graduated top of Horne’s class years and years ago, and he’s making waves.) Sam seems content to listen and look around and, praise the lord, even Joshua’s seem driven to blissful silence as they stroll.

Billy, though — more than Goodnight loves the forest, feels as familiar to him as it is to step home in Baton Rouge, he loves  _Billy_. And he loves  _looking_  at Billy, watching him absorb the sights before him, dark eyes almost glittering in wonder, dark hair speckled gold with the sunlight that peeks through the leaves. He’s beautiful, has been since Goodnight met him over a decade ago fresh out of the army home on honourable discharge, and beautiful now, silver pin shining in his hair like the silver of the matching rings that adorns both their hands. It makes Goody swallow, heart flipping, his free hand comes to touch the medallion at his own throat.

It’s a slow and steady pace to the campsite, no rush, and by the time they reach it — a beautiful grass clearing, surrounded by trees and the earth below them, the clear sky above — Goody feels like his soul is lighter. There’s something about this beautiful place that simply clears the mind. He, unfortunately, is forced to release his beloved’s hand so that they can start setting up the tents and hunt down firewood, but it’s worth it to start pitching up their shelter in the night.

By the time noon hits they have three tents up — one for himself and Billy, one for Horne and Sam, and one for Red and Joshua. Goodnight whistles low and impressed, beaming at their work.

“Well! I’d say we’re set and ready to go.” Goody grins, gesturing at their cozy little campsite.

“Just need some firewood. And we could get started on the grill.” Horne agrees, clasping his hands over the swell of his belly. “We could go in pairs. Any volunteers?”

“I still don’t get why we couldn’t bring stuff from home,” Joshua scoffs, “We can just _buy_ firewood — we could be sitting back and drinkin’ before half the day is through, like  _regular people_.”

Jack only frowns, shaking his head like he’s an old man instead of the fresh forty he is, “You don’t know what real camping is like ‘til you really let in the wilds.”

“Also, shit’s expensive, and we’re not lazy like you.” Red points out, deadpanned. “We’re roughing it out, man, we’re not heathens.”

Sam claps his hands together, effectively getting everyone’s eyes on him, as he so often likes to do. (The man’s  _still_  wearing all black out in the middle of a camping trip, for Pete’s sake. And he calls  _Goody_  extra.)

“Glad we got all that sorted, as we do  _every single trip_ ,” Sam says, giving Joshua a look, “Now that that’s settled, I believe we can split up tasks. Goody, Red, go look around for firewood. Faraday and I can start up the grill. Billy, you should go follow Horne — if the man doesn’t go out after this to go hunt for who knows what, I’ll eat my damn hat, and it’s never a wise idea to go into unfamiliar territory alone.”

Billy frowns, as does Goodnight. “I can go with Goody, Sam.”

Red raises a brow. “Sure. But we’ll save time this way. Unless you want a repeat of  _last time_.” Goodnight  _flushes,_ Billy’s own cheeks going ruddy even as Red continues and Joshua snickers, “You know. Where you two disappeared and took  _hours_  to find firewood and when Joshua and I came to look for you both, we found you and Billy f — “

“ — We get it,  _thank you_  Red.” Goodnight murmurs, desperately willing the blush off his face as Red smirks, Joshua and Sam’s laughter trailing behind him as he trudges off in the direction of the forest.

He makes it all the way ‘til he can’t hear any of them anymore before he realizes that he has no idea where he’s going. And all he can hear is the sound of birds chirping and some dog out in the distance barking. He shrugs it off in the end, just stooping down to start picking up spare branches, small and big ones alike, piling them in his arms and then — he nearly jumps out of his fucking  _skin_  when a hand taps his bicep.

“Jiminy  _fuck_  — Red!” Goodnight barks, jolting nearly a foot into the air.

Red, for the most part, looks only mildly sorry for it. “Sorry. Thought you heard me coming. Where are you going?”

Goodnight frowns. “To get firewood?” Pauses. And then, “Though I’m afraid I might get lost looking for it. How you and Jack do it, I’ll never know.”

“Some people have better direction. Happens.” Red answers, already moving forward. “Anyway, I wanna go somewhere. Come on.”

“Always a wanderer,” Goody says, shaking his head goodnaturedly as he follows Red’s footsteps, “Thought you said you’ve never been here before?”

“I haven’t.” Is Red’s easy answer, stepping over a thick tree root. “But I’ve done... A little reading on this place, when I was studying. It was intriguing. Saw the maps, drove by once with my grand dad. We can pick up sticks along the way.”

“Suppose that much is true.” Goody hums. Red really is shaping up to overthrow Jack in terms of embracing the wilderness, and he’s always had an almost supernaturally keen sense of direction. It’s gotten them out of getting lost more than a few times in the past, and it’ll probably help them find whatever it is he aims to find this time around. Wouldn’t be the first time Red’s wandered to explore some new sights. Most of the time, it’s even worth it. “So what have you found out about this place?” He asks, just to keep up some noise.

Red shrugs, here. “Not much. There isn’t a lot written about it. But it used to be a settlement, once.”

Goodnight’s brows raise in interest. “Oh?”

Red nods, finally looking at him. “Yeah. Once, back in the late 1800s. Was a small town, became a ghost town by the mid 50s. Most of the people went to merge with the bigger cities by then.”

“And then I suppose the forest grew out to become this lovely land.” Goodnight muses, glancing at the trees around them. He runs his fingers down the trunk of one, feeling the rigid bark on his palm, humming under his breath. “A right shame that the town never flourished, but I suppose needs must. A beautiful place it turned out to be all the same.”

“Mm. Especially considering all the death in here.” Red murmurs.

Goodnight glances over. “Death?”

Red nods, looking at him again. “Couldn’t find out much about it, but there was some big battle here at one point. Don’t know what over. Didn’t find anything about it in the internet, had to go to the library to check it out — over two hundred people died. Big shootout, old west style. Maybe that’s why the town died out so quick.”

Now that’s something interesting. And a right shame. There was a lot of death back then, and the idea of it brings Goodnight back to a place of mind that’s largely grim and unhappy, and so he snaps himself back to reality:

“Why were you lookin’ so deep into it?” Goodnight questions, tilting his head. As far as he knows, Goodnight’s the historian between the two of them, even though he never finished college for it. Red’s more into the earth, not the people on it.

Red opens his mouth, here — glances at Goodnight, like he’s about to say something, and then shuts his mouth and looks forward as if he’s thought the better of it. Mouth clipped tight, brows furrowed, troubled, before it opens again.

“My grandfather told me about this place. And I know some people —  _my_  people, were involved. And the forest is interesting.” Red finally says, shrugging. And then, “... Just spoke to me.”

Well. Now that’s a familiar feeling. 

The conversation falls to silence after that, the both of them peacefully making their way through the forest, threading past the trees and stepping over the thick roots on the ground. Red’s hardly much of a talker on a regular circumstance — if he’s got something he doesn’t want to say about his interest in this place, either due to his people’s history here or something private, he won’t push.

As he comes closer, Goodnight can hear a sound he finally recognizes: the sound of a burbling brook. Rushing water. He smiles despite himself, and when he catches Red’s eyes, Red smiles too.

“This place have a name, then?” Goodnight asks, shifting the topic a little. “I might want to look it up myself. Fan of history, after all.”

Red, a few steps ahead of him, glances back and grins. And then he gestures forward, bringing Goodnight into another glorious sight: a beautiful, crystalline river, glimmering in the late summer sunlight.

“Back then?” Red says, bringing them both forwards, “This was Rose Creek.”

It’s a magnificent sight. He feels more like he’s in some national geographic documentary than on another camping trip. He abruptly wishes Billy were by his side — it’s a regular feeling, but more so now, because he could really use Billy’s camera here. The man’s a photojournalist for warzones and disasters, not a nature photographer, but no one can deny a sight like this one, and perhaps only Billy could even attempt to capture the glory that the lord has made before them.

Red, ever the level headed one who doesn’t get distracted by things like  _nature_ , is already crouched by the stream and collecting water in his hands by the time Goodnight snaps back to reality. A bundle of firewood already under his arm, Goody figures he can spend some time to admire the scenery, dropping them down in a neat bundle before he moves over to where Red is, crouching down to admire the water.

The water is clear and cool, beautifully so. He feels refreshed just looking at it. Gathering water feels like a mesmerizing task, clearing his head to a refreshing emptiness — a feeling he could’ve used all those years back in the army. As is, though, he’s happy to at least be alive and well enough to be here. The water’s clear enough that he can even see fish racing below, darting under the water’s surface and hiding in crevices and under rocks. One glimmers in a perfect ray of sunlight, and Goody hardly realizes he’s ducked his head lower and leaned out further until he suddenly realizes that he’s losing his balance, a second too late —

_Splash!_

He wheezes when he surfaces, and shakes his head like a dog to the sound of Red losing his mind laughing, on the ground and near crying with it.

Goody scowls. “Hey, you’re s’posed to be helpin’ me up here!”

“Sam didn’t ask you to  _gather the water, Goody_ ,” Red laughs, eyes watering with mirth, “Fuck, oh my god.”

Goody huffs, though he’s hardly actually miffed — to be fair, it  _is_  his own fault, the water is refreshing, and at least he’d left his phone and wallet back at camp, and —

“My medallion,” Goody startles, touching his neck and feeling it come up empty, “Red, my medallion!”

Red’s laughter ceases, though there’s still joy in his eyes. “Your what?”

“My medallion, my necklace — hell, whatever you call it —  it fell in!” Goody realizes in horror, glancing down into the water as he touches his bare neck. “Billy gave it to me on our anniversary last month, I can’t lose it — “

“Maybe on your next anniversary, you’ll try not to fall into any creeks.” Red points out, because he’s a smartass.

“Red!”

The urgency in his tone finally must come through, judging by how Red finally nods and gets up to his side of the creek and starts looking. Goody feels panic thrumming in his heart — he hopes against hope that it hasn’t been washed away by the river. It’s a small medallion, beautiful in its aged bronze sheen and Aztec-esque inscriptions, with a rich history behind it. Not quite his style, not really, but he  _does_  have a fondness for antiques and their stories and besides, Billy had told him that it’d called out to him when they went trawling through the antiques shop. It’s a rare thing for his love to feel drawn to something based on sentiment alone, and Goodnight appreciates every single instance. 

(And besides, Goodnight adores  _Billy_ in general. The fact that the medallion is apparently a remnant from the late 1800s and belonging to some apparently long-forgotten outlaw is just a minor detail in the ever expanding fact that Goody would do anything for Billy. He still gets giddy at the thought of wearing a piece of Billy’s love on him wherever he goes, right there on his throat, as with the ring on his left hand. When Billy says jump, Goodnight asks how high — hell, if Billy asked, he’d dress like a clown and call himself BooBoo the Fool.)

Thankfully, his prayers are answered when Red finally calls “Hey!” and holds up a gleaming bronze medallion. Goodnight feels all the air abruptly leave his lungs in a  _whoosh_ , relief flooding his system so palpable his knees near buckle. He’s sure Billy wouldn’t have minded if he  _did_  lose it, would hardly hold it against him, would likely just be amused over the fact Goody fell in — but Goodnight’d never forgive  _himself_  for losing it. He’s never lost a thing that Billy’s given him in the past decade and more they’ve known each other, and he’s not planning to start now.

He climbs out of the river, sopping wet and hardly minding, taking the medallion from Red and breathing another sigh of relief as he places it back on. It shimmers brilliantly in the sun, water trickling down its face. It’s still in one peace.

“Thank you, Red.” Goody breathes, finally smiling wide and proper, clasping a hand on Red’s shoulder.

Red smiles for a brief second, before making a face at the feeling of cold river water seeping into his shirt, moving Goody’s hand off of him. “Ew, dude, you’re  _wet_  —”

Goody, abruptly, grins. Red’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back.

“Oh, no. Oh  _hell_  no. Get away from me, old man — “

Goody laughs, and surges forward, pouncing onto him and grasping him in a bone crushing hug, letting the cold river water seep and sog Red’s clothes, the younger man thrashing and protesting wildly.

“C’mon, Red, let me show you my appreciation!”

“Your appreciation can burn in hell!”

Red struggles, Goodnight laughs hard enough to hurt, and then they topple to the ground in a wrestle that makes them even more of a mess, grass stains against their clothes. Red may be younger and a gym junkie, but Goodnight has military experience, and it may take them longer than necessary to get up and complete what they set out to do judging by the fact they suddenly hear a cough behind them at some point, making them both stop and look up.

Sam Chisolm, in an expression Goodnight fondly thinks is semi-permanent now, looks at them with a practiced weariness.

“You know,” Sam says, “I thought we’d avoid wrestling if I separated you and Billy.”

Goody’s face breaks into a grin, the same one that would’ve gotten him both in and out of trouble as a boy. “As always, Sam, you wholly underestimate the capabilities of Goodnight Robicheaux.”

“As I always do. At least this incident is safe for work.” Sam points out, mouth twitching into a smirk as Goody laughs, embarrassed.

Red growls from under him, drawing their attention to the Red-faced comanche below Goodnight. “If you don’t get him off of me, I’m going to drown you  _both_  in the creek.”

Sam helps Goodnight up there — not that they think Red would actually drown them, but a pissy Red on a camping trip usually means waking up to something nasty in the tent — and then Red. And then they finish what they set out to do, gathering up the bundle of firewood and setting back faster than Goody would on his own, because Sam and Red are much better at actually getting things done, whereas Goodnight does as he always does — talks and talks and talks.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time they’re done, and in the near distance Goodnight can see smoke — the food must be cooking. Sam hums as he stands, and Red follows after, branches safely tucked under his arm to bring back to Horne in one piece.

“Well, gentlemen,” Goody says, “Seems like a job well done, no?”

“No thanks to you.” Red points out, with no real malice in his voice.

Sam rolls his eyes in exasperated fondness. “Kill each other back at camp, please. I’m too old to drag the both of your bodies back to civilization.”

Goody gasps, clutching his chest. “Sam, I am  _wounded_.”

“You  _will_  be if you don’t get a move on.” Sam snorts, already starting to walk. “C’mon, then. The boys are waiting for us. Last thing we need is Horne stomping up in here and telling us we’re wastin’ daylight.”

Sam keeps on walking, then, disappearing behind the thick trees as Red follows after. Goodnight hums, about to follow after, when —

_Goodnight?_

Goody blinks. Pauses. Out of the corner of his eye, by the creek, he sees something. Some _one_. A figure, tall, an outstretched hand, palm turned upwards and reaching,  _reaching,_ says  _Goodnight_  —

When Goodnight spins around, breath caught in his lungs and fast enough to almost give him whiplash: there’s nothing there. Just what there was before; a burbling clear creek, a maze of trees, golden sunlight peeking beyond the green canopy. Animals scurrying in the distance, the sound of insects, frogs, birds in the branches.

Goodnight stares, good and long.  _What?_

And then — Red calls his name, somewhere up ahead, and Goodnight shakes the image and the sound out of his head, catching up with the others and heads back to camp.

 

* * *

 

 

“Goody.”

“ _Billy_.”

Billy sighs, somehow still looking gorgeous even after spending the last few hours in front of a grill. They’re all stuffed, now — full of burgers and sausages and that alarmingly tasty rabbit Horne had caught — and now they’re just lounging by the fire. Joshua and Red sniping at each other about the correct technique for smores, Sam and Jack having quieter, more civil conversation beside them.

Himself and Billy, well. They’re sat a little further back, talking even quieter. Billy looks beautiful, even with barbeque sauce stains down the front of his shirt and beer on his breath, his dark silken locks a little bit of a mess and falling out of its bun to sweep his face in lovely waves. The most elegant mess. Goody can hardly stand it, even though he’s the cleaner of the two (Billy had taken one look at Goody’s sopping wet, grass-stained clothes after he’d first come back and immediately marched him to the tent for a change) and he has to kiss Billy just to soothe the love in his heart.

Billy makes a pleased noise to the action, cheeks going a little ruddy, though his gaze remains serious. “It’s just in your head, Goody. Like your dreams.”

Goody frowns, noses Billy’s temple. “Billy, I swear. I heard the voice — “

“ _Goody_  —”

“ — I heard the voice, I heard him, I saw him, Billy, he was  _different_.”

That, at least, draws Billy’s attention proper. He draws back, just enough to look Goodnight in the face. Goody already misses the presence — he loves touching Billy, every part of him that allows — but he keeps Billy’s gaze, seriousness in his own blues as he locks eyes with Billy’s own darker ones. Billy’s brows furrow, a frown on his face.

“Different? Different how?”

Goody shrugs helplessly. “I dunno, he was just... Different.”

Seeing things that aren’t there, hearing things — Goody’s no stranger to any of those, not really. Not after coming back from his last tour.  _A mixture of psychosis and post-traumatic stress disorder_ , his psychiatrist had told him, which is just fancy talk for the fact that Goody sometimes hears the voices of the squad mates he’s watched die, talking to him, whispering in his ear. Begging for their lives, begging for Goody to save them. Sometimes he sees the faces of the people he’s seen in the scope, dead-eyed or crooked neck’d, standing in shadows or between crowds of people, reaching for him in and out of his nightmares.

The thing is, Goody’s used to that by now. It doesn’t get easier, doesn’t get anymore pleasant, but he can  _deal_  with that. He knows what to look out for, what he sees and hears that nobody else can usually consistent if still horrifying, and he’s used to them. It’s what he takes his medication for. Hell,  _Billy’s_  used to them already, more than versed in dealing with Goody’s demons and nightmares that follow him into the waking world more times than not.

But this time it’s different. Goody knows his own mind, traitorous thing it is, and what he heard and saw is  _different_. He’s never heard that voice before, swears he never does, but it feels familiar all the same. And he’s never seen that figure in his life, he’s got a more than decent memory and he would  _know_  but he doesn’t know that figure, except that he does. And perhaps more damningly — the figure had reached out  _to_  him. Hands outstretched. And not in the way his hallucinations always do — grasping, reaching, trying to drag him into the hellish nightmarescape they come from — but with its palms facing upward.  _Beckoning_.

When he tells Billy as much, Billy only frowns, and then moves to nudge his body even closer to Goody’s. Squeezes their intertwined fingers that lie between them, lifts them so he can kiss the back of Goody’s hand, the way he always does when he’s trying to comfort. It works, in any case — Goody’s body relaxes before his mind can even register, and he thumbs small circles in the back of Billy’s hand over it.

What Billy says surprises him, though. “We shouldn’t talk about it.”

Goody blinks. “Really?”

Billy shakes his head. “Not here. Not now. When we get home — maybe. This forest is old, Goody. Has its own history. Best to not talk about it while we’re here.”

This, of all things, makes Goody break into a grin. “Why, cher. You keep telling me you’re not superstitious, and yet —”

“I’m not, I’m just being smart.” Billy rolls his eyes. “My  _umma_ used to tell me that there are things in this world beyond us. And we shouldn’t draw their attention by talking about them, not where they rest. It could disturb them.”

“Really? Sounds like a wise woman.” Goody hums, kissing Billy’s temple. He never got to meet Billy’s mother — she’d long passed by the time they met, and the only time Goody gets to meet her was when he joins Billy in visiting her grave in Incheon every year —  but she’d always seemed smart, if a little traditional. “What else did she say?”

“The usual. Don’t piss on random trees. Don’t shine torches at random places in the dark. Don’t use your full name in the forest.” Billy says, levelling a flat look directly at Goody, there. “Which you already did, by the way.”

Goody grins, sheepishly. “Well, perhaps this lesson was a little mistimed. But,” he says, and he pecks Billy’s cheek here, “I have you. And I swear by the lord, if anything could scare away a ghost, it would be you, sweetheart.”

Billy  _scoffs_ , though even in the dim evening light he can tell that Billy’s cheeks have gone darker, eyes averted as his mouth struggles not to twitch into a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you,  _mon ange_ ,” Goody croons, grinning wide enough his cheeks ache, “Stronger than Samson, you are, and a million times more fearsome to boot.”

Billy finally cracks then, smile spreading despite himself, shoving at Goodnight a little. “Goody, stop.”

“Why, he’d be in envy of your hair — fair Delilah would weep at the sight of it! Venus would seethe in envy atop her half shell at you,” Goody singsongs, leaning in further and trucking on, delighting in Billy’s barely stifled laughter, “As elegant and poised and  _dangerous_  as a wild cat, a panther lying in wait, a cobra ready to strike, glorious and wild and amazing, and, and — “

“ — and yours.” Billy finishes, cheeks  _definitely_  red now, smile so bright and wide across his face that Goodnight feels his soul lift and take flight.

“Mine. As I am yours too,  _mon cher_.” Goody breathes, kissing Billy’s smile and delighting in the laugh against his own.

“Wow,” comes a deadpan voice from across the fire, “We just ate, you know.”

Goody blinks, and him and Billy both part to see four pairs of eyes staring at them from across the fire, in varying levels of amusement. Red smirks, despite his own comment; Joshua cackles like an idiot beside him; Sam looks amused and fond in equal measure; Jack looks like he’s reminiscing about his own late wife, and happy all the same. Goody grins, sheepish but proud all the same, hand still happily intertwined with his love’s, and Billy groans and ducks his face into Goody’s shoulder.

“Let me kill them. Goody,” Billy mumbles into Goody’s shoulder, “Let me kill them.”

“No can do, cher. We like them, unfortunately.” Goody grins, to Billy’s answering groan, and everyone else’s laughter.

The night rolls on easily, after, as they always do. Trading stories by the fire, well-meant snipes, roasting Joshua in particular because he’s easy to rile. The food finishes easy, the smores even faster, beer flowing like water (except for Goody, who stays responsibly sober because he’s on medication, thank you very much) and good feelings flowing even better. By the end of the night, Joshua’s already out for the count, Red and Jack looking like they’re about to nod off, Sam yawning and Billy already leaning his full weight against Goody, eyelids drooping heavy like he’s fighting to keep them up. 

Goodnight can’t help but share the sentiment — he’s full, warm, and happy. Sleep sounds like a divine way to end the night.

 

 

_Goodnight._

_¿Puedes escucharme?_

_Oy, Goodnight, despierta, por f_ —

Goody wakes up, shoots awake in cold sweat, eyes darting frantically. For a second, there is nothing but dread in his heart, a sense of missing and  _grief_  so misplaced and lost that he feels completely overwhelmed by it. And then he remembers where he is — hears the rustling of the tent to the breeze, feels the softness of the sleeping bag beneath his palms, smells the mustiness of earth —  and he forces himself to breathe again.

It’s still dark out. Goody can tell that much at least. When he glances to the side, he’s more than a little surprised to find his husband still asleep — Billy’s usually better attuned to Goody’s mood than even Goody is, sometimes already awake by the time Goody’s eyes fly open in a confused panic chasing nightmares to the waking world — but he  _did_  have quite a bit to drink, so. Goodnight won’t wake Billy up for this, his darling needs his rest, and just because Goody appreciates Billy’s comfort beside him when he gets like this doesn’t mean he’ll inconvenience Billy for it.

Instead he calms his mind, steadies and grounds himself just by taking in his surroundings. Keeps note of his senses. Sees: the insides of their tent, with their things neatly shoved into one corner, Billy curled up asleep on his side looking beautiful even in drooling, wild-haired slumber. Feels: the material of their shared sleeping bag, Billy’s arm nudged against Goody’s hip, the warmed metal of the medallion against his collarbone. Smells: the earth, the mustiness of a tent that hasn’t been used for a little while, the beer still on Billy’s breath. Hears: Billy’s quiet breathing, the wind —

—  _Goodnight_  —

And a voice, that makes Goody freeze in place.

He doesn’t move. Frozen, stock still — his eyes wide as he tries to place it. A part of him thinks it’s just him, just in his head, just one of the voices he knows mocking him from his nightmares — except it comes again. And again. Calling his name, from somewhere  _outside_  the tent, and the oddest thing is this: it’s not  _fear_  that’s holding Goodnight in place. It’s a sense of  _confusion_ , because Goodnight knows his voices, knows his thoughts and.

And he knows this one. He  _knows_  this one, too, but he doesn’t know how, or why, or when.

 _Goodnight_ , the voice calls again, and it’s definitely outside his tent now,  _Goodnight, llévame a casa_  —

He’s out of the tent without even thinking, eyes wide and searching wildly for the source. He knows that voice,  _how does he know that voice_  — except when Goodnight steps out into the brisk night air, he sees nothing. Nothing beyond the moonlight, the remnants of their campfire, the other tents, and the forest around them. His heart is pounding, adrenaline and confusion thrumming in his ears in equal measure, himself spinning around because he heard something. He knows he heard something.

... Which is actually the odd thing about this, Goodnight realizes abruptly. Beyond the fact he’s hearing voices from nowhere, he realizes that here, outside of the tent, he can’t... actually hear anything else. 

He can hear himself just fine, sure. Can hear Jack and Joshua both snoring up a storm. But the forest around him is just  _deathly quiet_ , and the fact sends an unwitting chill up his spine because... Forests just  _don’t go quiet_  for no goddamn reason. He has  _experience_  with this. There’s always the sound of birds or animals or some hundreds of thousands of insects and toads asking to fuck. He’s never, not once in all his almost thirty five years of living, heard a forest go this silent. Which makes the next part all the more crystal clear.

 _Goodnight_ , a voice whispers from the trees somewhere to his side, making Goody jolt.  _Goodnight, quiero ir a casa. Por favor, por favor_ , and Goody spins around fast enough to give himself whiplash, and —

There is a man, standing at the edge of the forest.

Watching.

The man is  _staring_ , and Goody stares back. Unable to move. Eyes wide; a deer in the headlights. Reasonably, he knows he should be scared; reasonably, he should be  _terrified_. Ghosts are the stuff of nightmares, after all, the stuff of horror movies and things that he’s heard terrible things about all these years. Reasonably, Goody should want to run back to the tent, wake Billy and the others, and book it the hell out of there.

Instead, though — Goody feels.  _Sad_ , almost. And, more than anything else: he feels a  _draw_. A pull, almost magnetic, his eyes unable to leave this man watching at him from the edge of the forest.

He knows this man. He  _knows_  him, though he’s never met him in his life. How?

The man is clearer now, despite the dim dark. Helps that he seems to be sticking around longer than he did by the creek. He’s tall, Goody notes — lanky, almost, like he’s never outgrown the gangliness of a too-tall boy, muscles wiry beneath the stained white shirt he wears, the worn maroon vest. He has short, curly hair, cropped close to his head, and a face that looks scruffy, desperately in need of a shave. Skin tanned, darker than Goody’s own by miles, though there’s still this... otherworldly pallor to it that Goody can’t describe. Almost translucent, but still clearly there.

More than anything, though. The man — whose eyes Goody can’t quite make out the colour of — is looking  _right at him_. Not with an expression of malice, or hatred, or threat. Goody  _knows_  what those look like, knows them to heart.

No. The man looks... Sad. Desperate. And, in the shine of his eyes — he looks  _hopeful_.

 _How do I know you?,_ Goody asks in his mind.

Goody doesn’t get an answer to his question. Because in between one moment and the next, the man flashes him another look,  _pleading_  — and then he’s gone, turned around and disappearing between the trees.

 _That_  snaps Goody out of his reverie, startling back to his system as he watches the ghostly figure grow smaller behind the trees, and before he can even think about what he’s doing he’s taking off, shouting “Wait!!”

It feels almost like his feet are moving without him, except he’s more than aware of it. The camp, his friends, Billy — they all seem to fade behind in light of the new question burning through Goodnight’s mind, of  _who is this man_  and  _why is he following me_  and  _where is he bringing me, where does he want me, where is he going that he wants me to follow_  and he’s running, running, running, feet tearing through the earth and wood and dead leaves as he follows the direction of where the man was going.

His heart pounds. His lungs ache. He keeps going, though, never stopping, never slowing, because he’s on the trail and he doesn’t know how but he  _is_  and he needs to  _know_. He can’t lose this, he has to find out. 

The world falls away. The sounds of the forest drowned out by the sound of blood thrumming in his ears, the rush of questions in his mind racing. He can’t even hear the sound of his own footsteps pounding the earth, not with the sound of the man’s echoing, otherworldly voice in his ears, speaking Spanish that Goody can’t hope to translate and hates himself a little for never learning. He can’t even hear the sound of his own rapid breathing, not with the man’s pleading look occupying his mind, desperate and hopeful and needing.

He doesn’t even hear the shout of his name behind him, over and over. Doesn’t hear the rapid footsteps on the earth behind him, doesn’t hear a thing, not until there’s a sudden loud  _crack_  sound breaking through the stillness, and the sound of falling earth, and a  _scream_.

 _That_  jolts Goodnight out of his trance, and he barely turns around in time to see a familiar horrified face and mohawk disappear over an edge that neither of them have saw. That, more than anything else that’s happened tonight, sends a lance of pure  _fear_  chilling through his system and penetrating his heart, like a sliver of glass in his lungs that freezes him. And then there’s a  _thud_.

“ _RED!!!_ “

 

* * *

 

 

Goodnight feels almost sick as he hurriedly navigates his way in the dark back to the edge where Red was just standing. They’re far away enough from their campsite, from their trail that they’ve wandered into the area of the forests where terrain starts getting uneven and rocky, grand tree roots sticking out of the ground and creating a myriad of unseen obstacles. There’s a huge one by the edge of a small earthen hill, and Goodnight feels his stomach flip and his lungs grow cold as he looks over and sees a curled up figure lying at the bottom, barely illuminated by frail moonlight.

“ _Red_! Goodnight calls, terrified out his  _mind_  as he rushes to the bottom, skids down the earth, “Red, please, are you alright, please  _talk_  to me — “

For a moment, Goodnight’s mind races with every worst case scenario. Red could have bumped his head something awful on the way down. Hell, he could’ve broken his neck, his skull, his  _spine_  — lord, what if he’s already —

And then Goodnight hears a whimper, and his knees damn near buckle from the sheer relief of it.  _Red’s alive. Red is still here, okay, okay, alright_. He hurries on over, trying to keep his own heart steady as he does, though nothing in the world could possibly keep him from the lance of pain that shoots through him at seeing his friend curled up on the forest floor. Still, he moves forward, coming to kneel by Red’s side.

It’s damn dark this deep into the woods and he can’t see much, but he can still make out Red’s figure, and he can definitely make out the trembling now. Can  _absolutely_  make out the rapid, unhappy breathing and whimpers.

“Goodnight? F — fuck, Goody — “ Red whines, when he finally notices Goody hovering over him, and Goody’s heart clenches.

“I’m here, Red, I’m here.” Goody assures, fear in his own blood. “Hey, hey, stay with me. Did you hit your head on anything? Are you hurt?”

“No, didn’t hit my head, I —  _fuck_ , Goody, my  _leg_  —” Red responds, almost a sob, and Goody’s heart freezes over.

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit_ , Goodnight leans over but he can’t see anything in this dark. He can’t check for wounds or injuries in this dim, and when he rapidly pats his pockets he finds nothing to help with that particular problem beyond his lighter, a swiss army knife, and a stale, crooked cigarette. His lighter could maybe provide some light, but not enough to properly examine Red for injuries, and he remembers leaving his phone and wallet aside in his bag before settling in to sleep. 

In the end, he looks over at Red helplessly. “Red? Red, hey, stay with me — “

Red grits out what sounds like a sob. “Goody — “

“I know, I’m right here, okay? Listen, listen to me. Did you bring your phone with you?” Goody tries.

Red chokes out a laugh, strangled and pained and  _wrong_  but a laugh all the same, and says, “Of c — of course I did, I’m not an old geezer like y — ou.”

That, of all things, makes Goody finally smile for the first time since all of this started, weakly but genuine. Good. If Red can still be a smarmy smartass even like this, then he should be fine. (Hopefully.) When Red digs into his pants pocket and pulls out his phone to hand to Goody, Goody tries hard not to focus too much on how badly Red is shaking.

The phone’s light is almost blinding in the forest’s darkness, and Goody squints in the sudden blare of brightness before his eyes finally readjust. He takes only a moment to note the wallpaper and time ( _a picture of Red’s three huskies, 3:24am_ ) before he swipes over to the PIN screen. He takes a wild guess as to what the answer is — Red’s birthday, his graduation date, and then his first husky’s birthday — before finally just asking for the answer and being let in.

Goodnight takes a moment to thank the lord and mankind for the blessed invention that is smartphones before accessing the flashlight. Immediately, Goodnight can see better — and immediately, he can see the problem.

He doesn’t see any open wounds or anything on Red — nothing beyond a couple of scrapes from tumbling down to the forest floor anyway, though he can never truly be sure of injuries unless he strips Red — but as his gaze and the flashlight moves lower, he feels a gutpunch of empathetic pain at the sight. Red’s lying in a foetal position, on his right side, because his right leg is almost definitely, absolutely,  _broken_.

Goody doesn’t need a professional medical opinion to say that. He’s got years and years of experience seeing that sort of thing and  _worse_  in the military. And also, it’s mottled a horrifying blue and purple, swollen, and Red’s shin is bent grotesquely in more than one place, in ways a human leg should never bend. By Goody’s initial observation, it’s broken in at  _least_  two places something fucking  _awful_ , with a severely twisted ankle to boot. It makes Goody’s gut roil with pained empathy and guilt — more so when he gently tries to nudge Red into lying back flat, and receives an agonized, barely bitten off cry as a response, chest heaving in rapid, panicked breathing.

“Red, c’mon now, I need you to stay with me. Talk to me, okay?” Goody says, hoping against hope that his voice is more reassuring than it is panicked, standing to look around the forest floor for things he could possibly use as an emergency splint. There are tons of broken branches all over, but he’ll need to scour if he wants to find any that’re long and solid enough to support Red. “Red? Red?”

“ — I’m still here, you fucking jackass. You s — stupid, bastard cunt, w —  _white motherfucker_  —” Red grunts from the ground, making Goodnight laugh weakly as he goes to look, “You piece of  _shit_  —”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, I’m awful, keep talking — “

“ _No_ , you don’t get to say that, I —  _I_  get to say that, you stupid,  _stupid_  —” Red grits out, “What were you fucking  _thinking_ , man, running out into — into the woods like that in the middle of the fucking  _night,_ I yelled at you but you wouldn’t  _listen_  — “

Goody pauses, for a second, bent over to pick up a few promising looking sticks. His gut roils,  _lurches_  with guilt, heavy and sick enough to make him feel like gagging and sobbing because. This  _is_  his fault, technically. For following a fucking  _ghost_  out into the dark forest, for listening to fucking apparitions, Billy would  _kill_  him if he ever found out and —

No. No. This isn’t about him right now. This isn’t important right now. He can worry about ghosts and the supernatural and  _whatever_  later — right now, Red is the one with the very real, very  _tangible_  concern, and Goody has to treat that first.

He picks up the few broken branches that seem long and sturdy enough, brings it back over to Red, flashlight shining back in Red’s direction as he moves to drop to his knees beside him. Red looks pale, tanned skin turning almost ashy, cold sweat trailing down his face and breathing heavily still, face contorted in pain. Goody winces at the sight of it, and mentally lists Red down in his ever-growing list of amends he must make — doubly so when he has to force Red to sit up.

“Just gotta check to make sure you ain’t hurt anywhere else,” Goody says, trying his best to convey both sympathy and firmness because he really,  _really_  doesn’t want to just leave Red as is, “Need you to sit up and lift your shirt for me, okay?”

“What, Billy not enough f — for you?” Red snaps out viciously. Goody lets the comment come and wash over him, even though a big part of him wants to snap back — Red is hurt, and hurt people just. Say things, sometimes.

Instead, he just levels Red a look, and nudges his shoulder. “Just gotta make sure you ain’t hurt or bleedin’ anywhere your clothes are covering. Trust me, okay?” And then, “I’ve been through this before, in the field. Let me help.  _Please_.”

He thinks it’s the plea, above all other things, that finally makes Red’s face crumple, and he nods jerkily before trying to get up. Every movement evidently must send waves of pain cascading on him, judging by how Red grits his teeth and scrunches his eyes shut, but he moves until he’s sitting, breaths coming out in short, wheezing pants.

“Good, good. Listen to me, okay? I’m just gonna look you over, and then I’m gonna splint your leg. I need you to breathe with me as I do this, okay? You’re going into shock.” Goody instructs slowly, calmly. Tries to recall the way Billy talks to him, on his worst nights, and lets it come through. “Don’t fall asleep on me. Just breathe with me. Deep breath in — “

As Red shakily inhales, Goody gets to work. He helps measure Red’s breathing as he lifts Red’s shirt, taking note unhappily of the scrapes and bruises that are definitely there, but grateful that there’s nothing beyond that. Closer inspection of Red’s other leg shows more or less the same, some heavier bruising on his other shin and a bad scrape on the knee but nothing quite as bad as his right. Throughout, he keeps count of Red’s breathing, in and out, in and out. At this point, he’s sure that most of it is for his own benefit than Red’s.

“... And out. Good. Red, that’s good.” Goody breathes, offering a smile.

Red shoots him a look that’s equal parts pain and exasperation. “I’m not a fucking dog, Goodnight.”

Goody chuckles weakly in return. “I know, I know. I just... You need to keep breathing, just like that, alright? I’m gonna check your leg, and then I’m gonna splint it, and then we’re going back to camp and then to a hospital.”

Red seems to almost pale when Goody holds up the sturdy bundles of thick branches that’ll have to serve as his splint. Goodnight hates having to be the one to do this — has always hated doing this, even when he knew it saved lives back in the field — because. He’s already inflicted enough pain on people in his life. He doesn’t need to keep doing it, even though reasonably, he knows it’s to help.

Still. Now is no different from any other time. Needs must, and Goody is all Red’s got right now. So Goody steels himself, apologizes to Red under his breath, and gets started.

Red’s barely muffled whimpers of pain almost threaten to undo Goodnight as he runs through Red’s pulse, motor control and sensory feeling. Each nudge and push makes Red almost shake in agony, and Goody finds himself saying  _sorry, I’m so sorry_  after every movement, doubly so as he starts shredding off pieces off his own sweatpants (well, sweatshorts now) to bind the makeshift splints to Red’s leg. It seems to be turning more and more discoloured and swollen each time he looks at it. Goody has half a feeling that it’s probably his own mind and panic making it seem like that, but either way, he’d rather get Red back to safety and to a hospital before he gets proven right or wrong.

After what seems to be forever, the splint is secured. Or as best as it can be, in these circumstances. Goody’s hands are shaking by the time he’s done, Red more so, but there’s a new determination burning through him now, if only because he needs to get Red back to safety, to proper help. These woods, while Goody hadn’t read about any possible dangers out, could be full of wild things out to get them. And Red needs medical attention _immediately_. The sooner they can get back to camp, the better.

With not insignificant effort, he manages to heave an arm around Red, hefting his weight and bringing him up. Ignores the pained clench in his chest at Red’s barely restrained cry — Goody’s intimately familiar with those kind of injuries. Knows that each movement, each minute shift, is sending waves of agony up and down Red’s body. He heaves Red as best he can, shouldering most of the weight — just because he’s been out of the army for almost a decade now doesn’t mean he hasn’t been still regularly working out at the gym since his discharge — and then carries them forward into the direction he remembers the camp being, Red helpfully shining the phone’s flashlight to guide them through and grunting commands along the way, being still the better tracker between them.

They have to make it back. They have to. Goody’s tired of losing the people he cares about, and he sure as shit isn’t gonna lose one more on something as dumb as a camping trip and a ghost.

 

* * *

 

 

“Goody,” Red pants, “ _Goody_ , Goodnight,  _stop_. I think — “

“ — We’re lost. I know.”

He hates the taste it leaves in his mouth as it leaves him. Hates admitting it, hates letting the fear that’s been slowly coiling up to his lungs spread further, like fractals on ice.

They’ve been wandering for what feels like  _hours_ , now — Red limping along, held mostly aloft by his weight around Goody’s shoulder, and by good rights they should be back at camp by now. Goody knows he couldn’t have wandered that far off chasing the man he’d seen earlier, and Red’s got an impeccable sense of direction even on his worst days, but.

This is the fifth time they’ve wandered past this tree. This rock. This _exact same hill_ that Red tripped and tumbled down — which, by the way, should be  _impossible_  given that Goody’s trekked uphill since. They shouldn’t be coming back around. They shouldn’t be walking further and further away from the place they just left, only to come back to it, leaves and dirt jostled in the exact same position Red had fell down, his imprint still left in the dirt. Can they really be lost if they never left?

It seems that the farther they wander back to camp, the more they come back to where they are. And Goody’s been trying to keep a lid on his growing panic, his growing  _fear_ , but his body — as used to heaving weight around as it is, and definitely still fit — is growing weary from carrying Red around, and Red’s grunts of pain are becoming more and more obvious the more he’s jostled. The forest around them is still painfully,  _eerily_  quiet — as if all the birds and insects and animals have abruptly disappeared, leaving only the rustle of trees and still, ominous silence. And despite the fact it feels like what must be hours of wandering, now — they’re still surrounded by nothing but darkness, almost pitch black. Red’s phone battery won’t hold out for much longer.

And it’s still 3:24 AM.

“Goodnight,” Red says as they pass by the same spot at the bottom of the hill for the seventh time, in a tone that makes Goodnight’s belly roil, “Goody. Stop.”

“Can’t,” Goody says, short of breath and loathing himself for it, “Gotta get back to camp. Gotta get  _you_  to a hospital. I — “

“ _Goody_ ,” Red interrupts again, sounding more desperate this time (and that’s what truly terrifies Goody, because Red is the most composed out of any of them in any given situation, more so than even his own sweetheart, which is saying a lot), “Stop. We’re not —  we’re not going anywhere, your back’s gonna give out, I need to sit down.  _Goody_. Think — I think we’re, I think we’re sp — “

“I know,” Goody cuts off, before Red can complete that damning sentence, “I know. Okay. Okay.”

( _Spirited away_ , Billy had told them all once, at their last camping trip.  _My umma used to tell me about it. People disappearing. Called away by spirits, lost in places they should know. Passing by the same sites over and over again no matter how much they walk away from it, seeing no one, meeting no one, no one able to hear or find them no matter how much they call out. Can be anywhere, from mountains to parking lots — there are always spirits around us._ )

Goody’s not necessarily superstitious, but he’s not one to dismiss any of these claims either. Red — well. Red believes in a lot of things, though he — like Billy — believes that most superstition and folklore have their own truths about them. Moral lessons, facts that ought to be learnt, encased in their own smoke and mirrors.

Now, though. Now, there’s no denying what they’re seeing, what they’re feeling. What Goody saw earlier; what they’re both seeing  _now_ , wandering in circles even as they draw further and further away. Goody can understand wandering in circles around a forest, sure, but how does one keep running into the same place when you’re going uphill? They’ve been wandering for hours. Time hasn’t moved.

In the end he gives in, putting Red back down for a little while to sit propped against a tree, giving himself a break, shoulders and back and legs aching from the strain. He’s faced worse, had gone through similar drills and for much longer, in worse conditions, when he was in the army — but it doesn’t change the fact that, for better or for worse, this is a situation in which both of them are helpless. It’s a feeling neither of them particularly enjoy.

The fact is this: they’re both in the middle of the woods, and they don’t seem to be any closer to getting out as to when they started. Red is still injured, and in need of a hospital. Red’s phone is on its final 20%, with no phone signal to call anyone with (typical) and despite the fact that it’s felt like they’ve been walking for hours, the time on Red’s phone hasn’t changed.

Goody realizes, with dread: They might die out here.

His hand drifts to the medallion around his neck without thinking about it while he tries to calm his breathing, stem the bubbling panic threatening to overflow from within him, at least in front of Red.

He wishes Billy were here. No — he wouldn’t wish this experience upon his love, not in a million years, but he wishes Billy were  _with him_ , because Billy would know what to do. No matter what anyone says, Billy has always been the better half of this relationship, and Goody above anyone else knows this to heart. Billy is smart. Gorgeous. Witty, intuitive, amazing at thinking on his feet, observant and perceptive and just —

If nothing else, Goody just. He just wants to hold Billy’s hand right now. Wants Billy to tell him things will be alright. That they’ll get out of this situation, that things will be okay.

Goody bites his lower lip to keep his eyes from watering, holding the medallion so tight it digs indentations into his palm. He has to keep calm. He has to figure this out, has to get back to him, has to come home, he’s been through hell and come back out so he can  _handle this_  —

And then he hears a muffled sob besides him, and those thoughts fly out of his mind immediately.

The night is dark and the moonlight barely pierces through the forest canopy cover, but Goodnight doesn’t need to see to know that Red is… crying. Red showing anything beyond indifference, sarcasm or irritation is surprising enough in itself — Red being upset enough to  _cry_  is another thing altogether. Something different, something awful, and Goodnight feels his stomach lurch another time when he can hear the tremble in Red’s breathing, wet and barely muffled. It doesn’t take Goodnight long to figure out that Red’s trying hard to  _hide_  his crying. It doesn’t take long for Goodnight to feel like a complete asshole.

Sure, out of their motley crew, one could say Goodnight may carry the heft of his own mind. He’s seen things,  _done_  things in this lifetime that none of the others have, and hopes they will never have to. He’s gone through years and years of therapy, of rehab, of endless different medications to get to where he is today. All of them know it, the ghosts that haunt him; he knows that he is the weakest link, though none of them will ever admit it.

But here’s the thing: Goodnight is  _experienced_. He’s seen hell, has seen it in dirt and blood and sand grit in his nails and hair and teeth. Has seen the insides of a human skull explode into pieces, through the view of his scope. And he’s seen things beyond that too, the demons that followed him out of the desert and into his mind and heart and home — the dead eyed people that haunt him, the darkness that threatens to sink his body whole some days, the sudden overwhelming anxiety that threatens to set him alight on others. It’s awful. He wishes none of it on anyone else. But at least he knows it, is familiar with these demons, and he’s spent years so as to learn how to  _handle_  them.

Red doesn’t have that. And while he doesn’t have Goody’s experiences nor the mental hounds that chase and nip at his heels, there’s no doubt that this is a terrifying experience. Wandering in the dark, through a forest that never ends, hours going missing as the clock shows the same time. Looping and looping, through time and through this space with no end in sight. And Red is not just the youngest out of them all, he’s also  _injured_  now, painfully so, and with it he’s  _helpless_.

Anyone who knows Red would know that helpless is his least favourite feeling. Even more than Billy, Red is one who thinks action speaks louder than words. And more than that, he’s one who hates to show anyone weakness, has more pride than anyone in their group, even Joshua — and here? Here he’s hurt, in more ways than one, lost in a confusing and horrifying situation, drowning in fear and helplessness and not only being unable to handle his own emotions with how upset he is, but not being able to do  _anything_  on his own. He can’t walk. He can’t run if things get tough. He can’t help beyond tracking the path, which is currently useless with the suddenly looping forest.

For a man whose entire life has been based on his own independence and getting through things through sheer force of will and action, being laid low by an agonizing injury and lost in a terrifying situation is. It’s.

Well. Goody can’t even imagine.

He hates himself a little, for not noticing. For not helping more. Hates himself for being so lost in his own mind, for thinking so much about himself than noticing the person who needs help the most in this situation is  _right beside him_ , and.

And then he wipes the thoughts away, because  _this isn’t about him_. This is about them, surviving. Somehow. And if there’s one thing he’s learnt over the years, it’s how to  _survive_. How to navigate the shadows of the mind, how to at least try and ease the tightness that threatens to flay ribs apart.

He moves to gently, quietly sit beside Red. Takes extra care not to touch his splint, and then clears his throat to remind Red that he’s here. The answering sob, abruptly cut off like Red’s just bitten his tongue to hold it back — it breaks Goody’s heart, a little bit. For Red to show any kind of weakness is unheard of, something he loathes more than anything — to cry like this, Goody knows it must destroy what pride he has left to do it, right next to a friend.

But needs must, and the way Red’s breathing sounds rapid and tight and damp tells him more than he needs to know about how Red must be feeling, and so he just. He tries. (It’s all he can do — it’s all they  _can_  do, where they are now.)

“Red,” Goody says, trying to speak normally instead of the low and soft way Billy does for him. He has a strong feeling that talking in any way that seems like pity will only make Red wall himself up further. “You with me?’

Red doesn’t answer, but he does make another noise, somewhere in the back of his throat. Sounding pained, strangled,  _wrong_ , and Goody’s chest clenches at the sound of it. When Goody shifts to the side to gently press his shoulder against Red’s, the man  _jolts_  at the contact, a pained hiss leaving him when he shifts his leg in the process, and Goody makes a sound of sympathy. He doesn’t move his shoulder though. He won’t, not until Red tells him to. He needs Red to know that he’s not alone in this.

 _Talk, Goodnight_ , he thinks to himself,  _talk for him._

“Need you to breathe with me,” Goody tries again, keeping his eyes forward and not on the trembling man beside him, “Think you can do that?”

“Don’t — I don’t —“ Red strains, voice pulled tight and strangled between breaths a little too fast, “Don’t need you to, to —“

“Just to make sure you’re not goin’ into shock.” Goody lies. “Need you awake and with me for this one. Breathe with me.”

For a second, he wonders if Red is going to argue with him on this too. Tell him that he’s fine, he’s not going into shock, that he doesn’t need the pity.

But instead, Red doesn’t answer — not beyond a jerky nod that Goody feels more than sees. It’s enough to make relief course through him so palpably he thinks he can  _see_  it.

So he starts. He breathes in, and breathes out, slowly, keeping count each time. Beside him, he hears Red start trying to follow him. It goes off to a rocky start at first — Goody can hear each tremble of Red’s breath, shaking, some parts releasing his breath too soon or sounding like he’s choking on a sob — but eventually, he gets it. Each inhale comes in smoother, each exhale a little less trembling than the last, and Goodnight feels each one beside him as he breathes with him. If anything, it’s helping the both of them to calm down.

And then, when they’re done, when Red’s back to breathing normally again — Goody takes a risk. He leans forward, turns to face Red in the dark, and then he just. Wraps the younger man in a tentative hug.

He could get punched for this, he’s aware. Red’s always had a particularly hefty right hook, and while Goody’s been military trained, no one’s ever punched harder than Red, besides maybe Joshua. But he has to try, he has to make the effort, if only because there’s nothing else he can do.

Instead of being shoved away though, or being punched in the ribs — Red just freezes in his grip. Goes rigid, like a statue, and for a second Goody’s scared that he’s done something wrong, that he’ll launch Red into another spiral. But then he feels the warm body he’s holding against himself slowly, slowly grow less tense, starts trembling minutely, and then. Red’s head ducks down. Buries itself in the crook of Goody’s neck. Lets himself be  _held_ , and Goody’s heart clenches in on itself as he holds Red tighter, stroking his back.

“You’re alright. We’re alright. We’re gonna be just fine.” Goody murmurs, if only just to have something to fill the silence, hoping against hope that what he’s saying will come true through sheer force of will. “I got you, and we’re gonna make it out of here together, swear by.”

The shaking against him grows a little stronger for a second, surprising him, before he realizes with even more surprise that Red is  _laughing_. It’s small, strangled, doesn’t sound quite right — but it’s better than nothing.

“God, everything you say is so full of shit.” Red says, real quiet like, and Goody barks out a small laugh himself at that.

“Suppose that’s true,” Goody hums, still stroking Red’s back, “But you chose to befriend me, so who’s the real dummy here?”

Red laughs again, shoulders trembling with laughter, and when that laughter dissolves into something more emotional, Goody doesn’t say a word about it. Doesn’t say anything either, when Goody feels the collar of his shirt grow damp, and hears sobbing gasps. Just hums some idle song under his breath, resting his own chin on Red’s warm shoulder, rubbing slow circles onto Red’s back. Humming, and humming, and stilling his own mind as much as Red’s. Gathering his thoughts, regaining his bearings.

It takes awhile (not that they have any reliable way of measuring that time), but eventually they calm. Both Red, and himself. The dampness at the crook of Goody’s neck starts drying, and the trembling and quiet sobbing has ceased to nothing — though Goody knows Red well enough to not mistake his steady breathing for sleep. There’s still tension in his muscles, tension Goody is well acquainted with in himself, that tells him that Red’s back to thinking, back to processing. Goody eases his humming, and eventually pulls himself away from Red.

“Well,” Goody finally says, after what seems like forever, “What should we do now.”

It’s a question, but not really — he doesn’t want to pile any pressure on Red, not to think too hard about what’s happening in case he launches Red into another panic attack.

He shouldn’t have worried, though — should have expected Red, out of all of them, to be the one to calm the fastest, assess the situation the steadiest. Because Red says, voice only a little less calm and stoic than it ever is,

“We should keep going.”

Goody blinks. “Keep going? But — “ 

_But there’s nowhere to go. We keep looping. Time isn’t moving and neither are we._

He hears a small huff of breath. “No. Downhill. We go in the opposite direction.”

Goody frowns, just a little. “But that’s moving away farther from our campsite, and we don’t know what’s ahead, and it’s dark. I don’t think it’s — “

“ — Where else  _can_  we go, Goody, huh?” Red finally snaps, a tired viciousness in his voice that shuts Goody up immediately. And then Red makes some frustrated noise in his throat before his next words emerge, pitched lower, less vicious, though still unhappy. “Going back to where we came from doesn’t do anything. Fuck, we’ve been here for what  _has_  to be hours and it’s still three in the morning. We have to try other ways or we’re going to — “

“ — Yes, I know. I understand. We should, I agree.” Goody intercepts, before Red can say those damning words of  _die here_ , “I... I suppose you’re right. Gotta exhaust all our other options first. How much battery you got left?”

The light from Red’s phone turning on again nearly blinds him before it flickers off again. “20%,” Red says, voice grim. “And it’s still three in the fucking morning.”

Goody eases out a slow exhale.  _Steady on, Goody_. “... I suppose we’ll just move slowly. Carefully. We’ll find a way out somehow.”

“... And if we don’t?” Red asks, after a moment of excruciating silence. And isn’t that the most damning question of all?

There are so many things Goody could say. None of them particularly good, or assuring. For all he claims to have mastered the English language, there’s nothing in his vocabulary to explain how hopeless he feels, how helpless, how guilty and how scared. Once it hits him that they might truly  _die_  here, unknown to everyone, lost in this space between space and time in a forest that stretches on forever — he may just lose it.

In the end, though, he just quirks a wry smirk. Leans his head back against the tree with a  _thump_. “Well, then, I suppose we’ll just survive here. You and I. Like Tarzan and Jane.”

Silence, again.

And then,

“ _You’re_  jane.” Red says, quiet.

And Goody can’t help but laugh, and laugh, head thrown back and eyes wet because  _lord, this is it_ , and Red’s own quiet laughter beside him. They laugh into the deathly still of the forest, laugh into the dark of the night, and even when Goody eventually gets up and nudges Red into standing with him, looping his arm around his shoulder, the smile remains on his face, desperate, tired, but there. He’s learnt a long time ago that sometimes, that’s all you’ve got. Sometimes, it has to be enough.

Lord, he hopes it’s enough. There’s not much else left to give.

 

* * *

 

 

Goody could almost cry from relief. His muscles are aching,  _straining_ , from helping Red along and trudging treacherously slow down the forest path in the dark, but it’s all worth it, because though the path is almost as terrifying as the shadowed, silenced woods around them — the fact is that they’re  _moving_. Goody has never thought getting lost in unfamiliar grounds in the middle of the night would ever be so  _welcome_.

They’re making progress. To where, Goody has no idea, and he doubts even the brilliantly smart Red knows either, but they’re  _moving_. They’re not stuck in an endless loop of walking the same path to end up at the same spot at the base of the hill again. The trees they navigate by, the earth they tread — it’s all unfamiliar, all  _new_ , and that’s enough to give Goody the strength and momentum to keep moving forward, nevermind the burning in his calves or his shoulders. They’re fucking  _going somewhere_. That has to count for something.

And then Red suddenly goes “ _YES!!”_ In his ear, and Goody damn near drops the man.

Goody winces, immediately readjusting his stance to make up the shift in weight, scowling. “Lord  _almighty_ , Red, what in the hell are you d — “

“Goodnight, shut the fuck up,” Red says in a rush, stunning Goodnight to silence, “I mean it, just —  _listen_.”

And Goodnight, however much he wants to talk even louder just to be contrary — he really is tired, so sue him — realizes soon enough that if Red can find something to be happy about then he supposes he ought to listen. And so he does. Shuts his mouth, stills his breathing.  _Listens_. The result is immediate — a sound so welcomingly familiar that Goody’s face breaks into a grin that hurts from his elation.

The rush of water. The burble of a river.  _Rose Creek_.

“Go forwards,” Red urges, sounding almost boyish in his excitement, “Goodnight, come on!”

Goody can’t even help but laugh, carrying onwards with a renewed strength. “Onwards we go!!”

They stumble along in excitement, Goody still taking caution not to step on anything rough while they do, but they’re certainly gunning along at a much higher speed. Even Red limps along, almost pulling Goody forward with the speed he aims to hit despite his battered leg. They go, they go, and keep going — up until they pass the trees, and come face to face with the glorious sight of a fast flowing river, and beautiful moonlight. The light glints and glimmers off of the water’s surface, and Goody feels close to crying at sheer relief. They’re somewhere familiar at last, and not in the looping sense. Finally, there is _hope_.

“Our campsite was near a river,” Red says excitedly, “And all rivers lead to people.”

Goody grins, gold tooth shining in the starlight. “It seems you were right, as always.”

Red’s smirk — now clear as day without the trees casting near-blind dark upon them — is a welcome sight beside him. “I always am, old timer.”

Goody squawks, Red laughs, and they hobble along closer to the river. It’s certainly not the same spot they were before, not the place where Goody fell in and near lost his gift from Billy — and that thought makes him clutch his medallion again, soothing himself — but it’s the river all the same, and light. And the closer they move towards it and take in their surroundings, the better things get — it seems that this run of good fortune has yet to end, if only because Goody spots something just beyond the water’s edge, some couple of steps down.

There is a cabin, by the water, not too far away. A small thing, but well built — the door is still standing, the windows intact, though it’s dark inside. If they’re lucky, there’s someone inside — someone they can call on for help, or at least stay with ‘til morning (hopefully) comes. If not, then at least a place to rest. Goody’s strong, he knows he is, but he can’t keep holding onto Red forever, and Red needs to sit down lest his other good leg finally gives out.

Red spots it too, judging by how he straightens suddenly. He nudges Goody, and Goody nods.

“We’ll have to cross the river for it,” Red warns.

“Not too far across, and I see some stone steps that can help us.” Goody says, looking at him. “At worst, I can carry you and wade in. It’s not that deep, and the current not that strong.”

He hopes it doesn’t come to that, however, because carrying someone across a river is never as risk-free as he’d like to hope.  He’s lucky that it doesn’t, though, when they come closer. The rocks are wet, but blissfully large and with ample flat space to plant their feet across. Goody piggybacks Red — a movement painful to the both of them judging by Red’s bitten off cry of pain, but a necessary one — and takes it slow and steady across the rocks. When they make it across, Goody doesn’t put Red down, and keeps him on his back as he walks towards the cabin, only putting him down on his good leg once they’re right before the door.

It’s unlocked, surprisingly. Goody draws out his swiss army knife with the blade out, just to be safe, and nudges it open slowly.

“H’llo?” He calls, looking around warily. “Anyone here? We mean no harm, only seeking shelter for the night. We’re a little lost.”

Nothing answers him. Just silence, echoing. And as he enters, he realizes why — the cabin is not just empty, but _abandoned_. By the moonlight coming through the windows, Goody can tell that someone was here before, but hasn’t been for awhile. There are signs of living all around — a single bed nudged against the corner, a stove, a table with a plate and a mug, two bookshelves fit to bursting — but everything is blanketed with a fine layer of dust. Seems like no one’s been here in ages.

Goody sheathes his knife, and helps Red inside, looking all around them. “Feels like a place stalled in time,” he muses.

Red grunts besides him, walking in. “Don’t care. ‘s well built. We can stay here first.”

Goody nods in agreement. The cabin, whoever built it, knew what they were doing. No matter the dust and age, it seems like there are no leaks nor broken wood. Everything is intact, the elements having no hold of it, though it’s a little stuffy without any ventilation.

He guides Red over to the bed, taking the effort to flick out the blanket and dust it — Red rolling his eyes at his ridiculous sensibilities, but he’s forever a gentleman of the south at heart — before letting Red down on it. The result is instantaneous: Red relaxes immediately, the tension and weariness of the night coming off of him in waves as he lies down, wincing only a little at the pain of having to move his leg. Goody props it as best he can with some of the pillows, and then leaves Red to settle in proper.

“Feelin’ better?” Goody asks, taking a seat himself, the plush mattress a godsend at easing his own strain.

“Got no idea, man.” Red grunts, finally settling into the pillow. “ _Fuck_. This is good.”

“Better ‘n good, I reckon. Hey, shine your flashlight around, I wanna see what we have to work with.”

Red acquiesces, and Goody gets up to look around to sweep the room quickly. As he saw early, there are the bookshelves — which he’s eager to look through, but restrains himself for the moment — and there are some other pieces of furniture and living around. There’s a rickety wooden chair by the table, an abandoned plate and mug with stains of the things previously in them. There seems to be a fridge and a lightbulb, though there’s no electricity when he tries the switches, and nothing in the former for them to refuel with. There _is_ a gas lamp though, which Goody lights happily with his lighter, and some emergency candles he finds in one of the drawers that he sticks around the room to light too.

And the good news keeps rolling in when Red closes his flashlight application, he finds, as Red suddenly excitedly calls him back over.

“Yes, O Most Generous master Red?” Goody jokes, coming over with his lamp, “What does your majesty n—“

“Goody, shut _up_ ,” Red says, though his smile is bright and wide as Goody comes closer, “ _Look_.”

And then Red practically shoves his phone in Goody’s face. Goody twists his mouth, moving his head away. “Yes, your huskies. What about them?”

“No, dipshit. Look at the _time_.”

Goody squints. Looks in closer. And then his legs _do_ give out from the relief.

 _4:35 AM, Saturday_.

“God,” Goody breathes from his place on the mattress, “I’ve never been so happy to be up at this hour.”

Red’s grin is still wide when he looks up, and infectious. “Signal’s still bust, but we can wait this out. Go and look for the guys again when morning comes.”

“Sounds good, Tarzan.” Goody grins, and laughs when Red laughs, though it quickly devolves into concern when Red starts coughing halfway. “You alright?”

Red shakes his head, water in his eyes, and coughs one more time before breathing. “Nothing, just — throat’s dry.”

Ah. Now that he thinks about it, Goody’s own throat begins to feel a little parched — they’ve been wandering for hours without food nor water, no matter what the time says, and he admits some water would be glory upon their systems now. Without a word, he takes the lamp with him to the sink, where there’s still a dishrack full of unused cups and plates. He takes two, and then turns back to Red.

“I’ll go get some water for the both of us. Rehydration’s important.” He says, nodding.

Red shoots him a pained look. “Don’t go too far.” Pauses, and then, “And don’t fall in.”

Goody snorts. “I won’t be too ambitious, I promise you.”

He’s in no mood to argue with Red, though. He’s not planning to move far from the cabin, certainly — it would be stupid of him to try and look for help in the dark, not when he knows morning is coming now, and he’s not going to get washed out in the river either. He goes directly to the water flowing by the stones near their cabin, squatting down to wash as much of the dust out of the mugs first before he fills them. He knows it’s not wise to drink river water, no matter how clean it looks, but they’re parched, and the river is fast-moving enough that he’s willing to take the chance.

He fills a mug, and then takes a grand swig of it. The chilled river water feels like the nectar of the gods to his throat — god, how had he not realized how _thirsty_ he was — and then finishes the mug, stooping down again to refill for the both of them. So focused he is on gathering the water and gathering his wits that he doesn’t realize that there is someone, some _thing_ , standing before him — until he hears it.

_Goodnight._

Goody’s eyes are wide, breath abruptly caught in his lungs. The forest is quiet again. And then — Goody’s head shoots up, fast enough he almost gives himself whiplash, because he  _knows that voice_  and it’s calling for him again and he spills the water getting to his feet and — there he is.

The man again. Standing in front of him. Looking the same as before, though his face looks a little... Different, now. Still desperate, still hopeful, but now also — concern.  _Worry_. He’s looking directly at them, and then at the cabin, and he makes what Goody can only equate as the ghostly equivalent of a sad noise. The man looks washed out, almost bright, translucent in the dim forest. Goody stands up, still not afraid, just — again, this _burning_ curiosity, this nostalgia hammering at the door of his mind. _How do I know you?_

“It’s you.” Goody says, keeping his eyes trained on the figure. This familiar friend, who he’s never met. “Who are you?”

 _No me recuerdas_ , the figure says, looking sadder now than ever, before turning back to the cabin,  _Lo siento mucho. No quería que nadie saliera lastimado_.

Goody takes another step forward, desperation in his eyes. “I — I don’t know what you’re saying, but you need to tell us.  _Who are you_? What do you want from us — “

The figure shakes it’s head sadly, as if he doesn’t hear anything Goody’s saying, turning his head to his side.  _Todos debemos ir a casa. Ven_.

And then he starts walking off again, and disappears into the cabin.

Goody stares, breathless, in the direction the man disappeared. The world is still deadly quiet, deathly still. And then, he’s — he’s _running_ towards the cabin, mugs be damned, bursting through the door to see a rattled Red sitting upright in bed, eyes wide and face ashen as if he’s —

As if he’s seen a ghost.

“Red,” Goodnight says in a rush, blood pumping through his system and heart racing, “Did you see —“

“Goody,” Red says, voice rattled, “ _What the fuck was that_?”

“I don’t know,” Goody says, mouth moving into a grim line as he shuts the door behind him, “But he was who I was chasing earlier. When you saw me running.”

“Jesus.” Red sighs, harsh, finally flopping back onto the bed. Runs a hand through his ‘hawk. “Goody, what the fuck. What the _fuck_.”

Goody frowns, but nods, coming forwards to Red’s bedside again. “I know, I know. Stupid of me to go chasing _ghosts_. Billy would say it would be awfully white of me.”

“Because this is how white people die in horror movies,” Red says, before shaking his head. “No, that’s not what I’m talking about. He… I don’t…”

Goody’s brows furrow. “He what?”

A pause. And then,

“Goodnight, I think I _know_ him.”

And that makes Goodnight pause. Eyes wide. He searches Red’s face, who’s adamantly not looking at him, staring at the wall and lower lip caught in his teeth, face looking ruddy like he’s embarrassed at admitting it. And he must be, Goody realized — Red prides himself in always keeping his cool, always being the most rational and level-headed out of all of them, besides maybe Sam. But Goody doesn’t focus on that, instead just. Leaning forward abruptly, making Red snap towards him, Goody nodding wildly.

“I know. I _know_ , Red, you’re not crazy. I _know_.” Goody says, _insists_ , looking at him in the eyes. “I felt it too. It’s like…”

“It’s like I’ve seen him before. It’s like I’ve _met_ him before.” Red completes, body relaxing minutely when Goody nods again in agreement. “What the fuck, Goody? I swear to god, I’ve never seen him in my life, but when he came in here he _looked at me_ and said something to me and I _know him_ —“

“It’s why I went running after him. I just… I have to _know_. And it feels like he keeps leading me somewhere, but I don’t know…” Goody says, trailing off, before he just. Gets _hit_ with a lightning bolt of inspiration. He snaps straight, looking around. “Red, where’d he go?”

Red frowns. “How the hell should I know where a _ghost_ went?”

“ _No_ ,” Goody growls, “Which direction was he headed when he disappeared?”

Red is silent, for a moment. But then he lifts a hand, and points at the bookshelves. “He disappeared there. Walked right into them and was gone.”

Goody nods, coming to his feet to stand. “I’m gonna look through ‘em. See if there’s anything I can find out about him.”

Red frowns. “For what?”

Goody looks at him. “Hell if I know. But he led me out, called to me. And when we tried to go _back_ to where we were, we kept looping, until we went the other way and to _here_ and time started movin’ again and it just —“

“— felt like he was leading us here. Right. Right.” Red sighs, harshly. “Fuck it, I guess we’re gonna help a ghost. Not like we have anything else to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Goody brings the lamp with him as he goes over the shelf, Red on the bed behind him sipping on a cup of water Goody finally went out to retrieve for him. There are an assortment of books there, judging from what he can read from the spines alone. There’s some novels, a few he’s well acquainted with and some he’s not, and then there are some non-fiction books — biographies, books on foraging and flora and fauna that Jack would perhaps enjoy, a few fun trivia books on popular shows at the time. He notes that these books are all old — there’s nothing newer than the 70s here. If these are all remnants from fifty years ago, this place is remarkably well-preserved.

And then Goody finds the other bookshelf completely filled with a single genre of books, and three that make him cheer in success.

“Jackpot!” He crows, turning around, “Found a few journals from a miss Haley Quenborough, a whole ton of books about the frontier west, and a few on Rose Creek.”

“Bring ‘em here,” Red instructs, beckoning, “All the journals.”

Goody hurries over, taking them alongside a few of the Rose Creek books beside it, hauling over to dump unceremoniously onto the bed. He leaves the lamp on the side for light while he drags the rickety wooden chair over too. By the time he settles in, Red is already poring through the journal, and Goody sets about doing the same, giving his medallion a squeeze and hoping that he can draw some of Billy’s strength for this.

Immediately, there’s a wealth of interesting information. For one thing, Goody’s inkling is confirmed — the journals are all dated from 1967 to the last entry in 1969, meaning the cabin’s old. And all of them are by the same person: Haley Quenborough.

“Seems like she was doing research on the history of Rose Creek,” Goody murmurs, flicking through the pages. “Seems she was real interested.”

“Too bad she can’t write for shit,” Red complains, scowling over the pages. “Handwriting’s terrible. Can barely read half of this.”

Goody only smiles. “Some writers get wrapped up in their writing, _mon ami_. They say creative people have awful handwriting — trying to get all the information in their heads onto paper as fast as possible. See?” He leans to show Red a page of barely legible scrawl. “She clearly got excited.”

“But it doesn’t help us.” Red shoots.

“I doubt she had us in mind when she was researching.” Goody points out, to Red’s sigh and eyeroll.

They continue to pore through the journal, pointing out anything that jumps out to them. A lot of it is barely legible, and the parts that do aren’t all relevant — Goody comes to the conclusion that the journals are really more of draftwork for something bigger she was working on. Some parts are just notes to herself, others are actual facts, and even more are questions that she keeps underlining to get back to afterwards.

One interesting part gets pointed out to him by Red. “Look,” Red says, jabbing a finger at the page, “She’s talking about her history with Rose Creek.”

“ _… There were seven men that rode in, that’s what grandma said._ ” Goody reads from the page, squinting a little at the scrawl. “ _I wish I knew their names so I could write them down and research them for the book, but she only remembers a few. She’s starting to forget more and more things, keeps going off topic whenever I talk to her about it. Mom says Grandma Emma is losing her mind, but I don’t blame her. Age does that. I wish Grandpa Teddy were around, because I knew he used to tell us stories and he would probably remember. Rest in peace, grandpa. Signed, Haley Q._ ”

“Haley Q,” Red says, jabbing the page again, “That was the pen name of the book I read. The one about Rose Creek, when I was younger. She’s the author.”

“What are the chances of that? There’s probably a thousand Haley Qs around the world!” Goody counters, brows furrowed.

Red frowns. “About the same chances of the two of us getting hunted by a ghost we both know into a cabin in the middle of the woods after being spirited away.”

“… Fair enough.” Goody acquiesces. “Alright. Let’s keep lookin’. Maybe the ghost is one of the men who died in the battle — see if you can find anymore names we can go off of.”

They do, but there isn’t much luck. They find some names in the journal, crossreferencing it with the books about Rose Creek, but there isn’t much to go on. Some of the men they find don’t jump out at them, and the books themselves mostly talk about the basic history of the area, the geography, and not a lot about the big battle, mostly due to a lack of information. What they can find is incredibly basic, though interesting — apparently seven men rode into a town that needed saving, and four gave their lives to do so. The rest, Goody knows — the town survived happily for awhile, before greener pastures and a failing mining industry called everyone elsewhere, including, apparently, miss Haley Q’s grandparents.

It’s only after a solid forty-five minutes of reading and referencing do they find a person that jumps out more than most — a Mexican, one of the seven who rode in. There isn’t much written about him in the books — none at all in fact, beyond just calling him a _Mexican outlaw_ , not even his name — but they do find their luck in the last of miss Haley Q’s journals, somewhere halfway through her entries about it.

“ _There is a startling lack of information about the actual battle and the participants, despite how heroic and grand it was, as Grandma Emma would tell me_ — evidently,” Goody huffs, before being slapped on the thigh by Red and continuing, “ _So I went out to seek whoever was the surviving settlers of Rose Creek for the answers. There aren’t a lot. My grandma and maybe five other people are all who are left, and three of those five were unreachable_.”

“I wonder why no one documented this if this battle was so _big_ ,” Red huffs, frustration in his tone.

“Well, judging from these books, Rose Creek was tiny. A one horse town, as it were.” Goody says, shrugging. “Battle that big, well. Unless someone spread the news and repeated it, it wouldn’t go very far. And who’s to say that they wanted to remember a day of that much bloodshed?”

Red snorts. “Or maybe they just didn’t have anyone that could read and write.”

“I doubt it,” Goody says, before turning his eyes back to the page and reading. “ _But I managed to get some names out of one from the two I contacted, all the way in Mexico._ ”

“ _Alejandro Vasquez_ ,” Red finishes, before frowning up at Goody. “That ring a bell to you?”

“Would it be weird if I said both yes and no?” Goody offers.

Red sighs. “No. I feel the same. Shit.”

“So that’s probably our man. The spirit spoke to us in Spanish too, so that I’d give it a solid chance.” Goody notes, nodding. “Check the next few pages, see if we can find any information about this mister Vasquez and just _what_ he wants us to do for him.”

It doesn’t take long. Right near the end of the book, just three pages, but enough information that it sends a chill up Goody’s spine. Pages, more heavily scrawled on than the others, bits of Spanish thrown around as if a reminder more than anything else. And more importantly — the story.

 _Not much known about Alejandro Vasquez,_ says the writing, _only that he was a Mexican outlaw that was on the run for killing a ranger. Five hundred dollar reward. One of the only surviving members of the seven that rode into Rose Creek._

 _Maria tells me that her great grandfather parted with the warrant officer and the Comanche warrior after the battle. Winning the battle didn’t guarantee his safety. By (_ and here, Goody notes, is a bunch of lines so hastely written that he can’t for the life of himself read it, though he thinks he sees the words _horse_ and _paid_ ) _… finally made it back and spent the rest of his life there, starting up a farm, though I can’t find out where it is these days._

 _I found a photo of him, courtesy of Maria, but other than that, there’s not much else known after he returned to his homeland. Maria tells me though that he did try to return to Rose Creek — but he passed in an unfortunate accident involving wild horses and an overturned carriage. He is buried here, in Mexico, though I couldn’t stick around long enough to find out where. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter_ (and here, once more, illegible scrawl) _…solm chose to be buried at the same site as his fallen comrades, and while no one could track the Comanche, Grandma Emma did tell me that they found the body of an old Indian warrior many decades later nearby Rose Creek. Whether that is the same warrior, we don’t know, and we’ll never find out._

_To note, this means one interesting thing: Alejandro Vasquez is the only member of the seven who did not return to Rose Creek. Attached: a photo of the outlaw himself, in a photo taken in the 20s. Note to self: this is a photocopy. The original is still with Maria Vasquez. See if she’s willing to part with it for…_

And thereafter is just some numbers and more scrawl, mostly talking about finding more information, more plans to head out elsewhere to search, and then some notes about libraries within the area to check out. Not that any of it matters — the photo attached to the page is enough to make Goody’s breath stop in his lungs, hitching in his throat. Enough to have Red’s voice die down to nothing. Chills, and deathly silence between them.

The photo is clearly old. Black and white, not in the best quality, though remarkable for one in the 20s. It’s a man — tanned, elderly, sitting on a chair and smiling at the camera. Wiry, curled hair cropped short, going white at some parts, wrinkles at the edges of his eyes.

A bronze medallion hanging on his throat that makes Goody’s heart cease function.

“Oh my god,” Goody breathes, after what feels like an eternity of silence. His voice feels like a booming echo in the stillness of the cabin. “Oh my _god_.”

“Holy _shit_.” Red echoes in sentiment, eyes blown wide staring at the photo, and then back at Goody, and then at Goody’s medallion. “No way. _No_ way.”

“Billy and I…” Goody says weakly, touching his medallion feebly. “This can’t be.”

But it has to be. There’s no other explanation. None whatsoever, for the fact that Red somehow knew the author of this book long before they found themselves here. For the fact that just _looking_ at the photo, at that aged smile and eyes of a man long dead somehow makes him feel like his chest is constricting hard enough on itself with nostalgia to _collapse_ , to implode, to suck itself in with sheer _missing_ and _familiarity_. And for the fact, for the _fact_ , that he and Billy went to the honeymoon, that Billy found the medallion, that Goody is _wearing_ it and then found the book and then asked Jack and —

“Lord,” Goody says weakly, finally shutting his eyes. He feels light-headed, _dizzy_ , with the realizations and emotions flooding within him. Shock. Nostalgia. _Grief_ , somehow, for a man he’s never met but swears he knows. “… How long as he been leading us here?”

“For a long fucking time.” Red breathes, pinching his brow. “Fuck. _Fuck_. I read about the Comanche warrior dude before. Christ. My grand dad said he was a possible ancestor or something.”

“Does this mean we could be…” Goody trails off, turning to look at Red.

To his surprise, though, Red just shakes his head adamantly. “We’ll get to that later. There’s only so much mindblowing shit I can handle in one night.”

“But we have to do _something_ about the information,” Goody tries desperately, leaning forwards. “He came to us! Lead us here! It has to be for a reason, has to do with this _medallion_ , it has to be, I’m the first one he reached out for, I —“

And then Red grabs him by the arm and Goody yelps, nearly tumbling forward onto the bed.

“Ow! Red, what the —“

“ _Goodnight_ ,” Red says urgently, drawing in close enough that their noses could touch, eyes firm enough to stun Goody to silence, “Go back to the shelf and find me some map of this place. Now.”

Goody furrows his brow, though he nods. “yeah, yeah — I think I saw some folded up in the shelf. Why?”

Red’s mouth draws into a grim line. “We need to find the graves.”

And right as the last word leaves Red’s mouth, the cabin seems to almost come _alive_. The door suddenly slams open, loud enough to startle both of them hard enough to _jump_ , and the windows fly open after, both of them opening and shutting over and over, seemingly rattling. The flames of the candles suddenly burn _brighter_ , burn higher, and the lamp shines bright enough suddenly that Goody has to shield his eyes from it. A sudden wind rattles out of nowhere, gusting through the cabin enough to send a chill down Goody’s bones even though the candles don’t move whatsoever, and the wind almost seems to be saying _por favor, por favor,_ before it finally dies down.

When it does, Goody stares agape at the cabin. Red is silent beside him for a long, long while, before he releases a long, harsh sigh.

“Well,” Red deadpans, “Fuck it. If that’s not a sign, then nothing is.”

Goody nods in agreement, already moving to stand. “I’ll go get the maps.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s hard to believe that they’re back out, wandering half-lost in the middle of a haunted forest _willingly_ so soon after what’s already transpired, but. The good news: it’s starting to get light outside.

Red is leaning heavily on Goody as they walk away from the cabin and into the trees — getting up and walking again is no doubt causing unbearable pain, and Goody’s heart won’t stop clenching at the sight of it, but they both have to grit their teeth and carry on. Pain or no pain, exhaustion or no. There’s a single map clutched in Red’s white-knuckled fists, and the medallion around Goody’s throat feels more now like a compass than anything else. They’re on to something. They _know_ it.

The sky is turning lighter, though the sun has yet to properly wake across the horizon. They don’t need the lamp or Red’s flashlight to navigate the ground now, which is another plus, now that Goody doesn’t need to watch the ground for every single step. Of course, light of day or dark of night or not, Goody has absolutely zero clue as to where they are or where they’re going — but Red seems to. Has a gut feeling, had jabbed his own chest and said _this compass, man_ when Goody asked him _you and what compass?_

They never say anything about gut feelings in survival class. But after everything that’s happened tonight, Goody knows better than to argue against them.

He feels almost delirious, after everything that’s happened. Has it only really been so many hours? The morning light seems almost to bring Goodnight more questions than the night had — did they really circle the forest for hours, in looping unmoving time? Did they really see a ghost? Are they really on their way to helping one right now, one they might know? And what does it mean about _them_?

So many questions, Goodnight’s feet move on autopilot. Hardly aware of where they’re going beyond knowing to trust Red’s navigation and trying to shoulder as much of Red’s weight as evenly as possible — at least until Red abruptly draws to a stop and Goody nearly pitches himself into a tree.

“What —“

“Look.” Is all Red answers. And Goody does.

The tree is all of grand and beautiful it is as it’s other siblings surrounding it, but nothing altogether special. Nothing, at least, until Goody squints in closer and realizes the markings, the _writing_ , etched into it, small enough to almost miss: _Haley Quenborough was here. 8/17/69._

“We’re close, it seems.” Goody says, in a voice he feels is small.

Red only nods beside him. “Come.”

They do. They go. And it isn’t far at all.

It’s maybe only another eight, ten minutes of walking before they reach what they’re looking for: a small clearing within the forest. The trees in a ring surrounding the grassy, flat patch of land, of barely twenty feet in radius. Almost a perfect sphere — as if the forest had decided, all on its own, to protect whatever lay in the middle. To keep it safe. Sacred. Just stepping in, Goody feels his breath catch, his body feel like moving in slow motion; none of this feels real, and he feels almost like he’s stepping into a different space, a different time, protected by old gods and the forest itself, to see what they’re protecting. The sunbeams seem to still, dust motes frozen — it feels like time has stopped.

And when he and Red move slowly to the centre of the small clearing, they finally see what they’re meant to. And something — Goodnight doesn’t know _what_ , just knows that it’s _something_ — finally clicks into place.

It feels like coming home. Like a circle, completed.

“This it?” Red murmurs beside him, and Goody can only shake his head, because he doesn’t know. Only knows that he _does_ know, but he doesn’t know what he knows.

There are six pieces of wood, lying in parallel from each other, sticking up from the ground. Most of them are broken, rotted from the rain and the years, and the few that still stand upright are so heavily coated in moss that they can’t read the inscriptions. But they don’t need to read them to know what they’re there for: grave markers. For the seven that once fought here, and died here. Or rather; only six.

Goodnight’s hand moves to touch his medallion without even thinking; it’s cold to the touch, but a breeze comes by and rustles their hair in a way that feels _comforting_. And without even having to think, he knows what to do.

“Red, hold onto this for me,” Goody says almost absently, taking off the medallion one handed and giving it to Red, “I’m gonna find some wood.”

To his credit, or maybe to the credit of the situation, Red doesn’t even look at him questioningly. Just looks at him, and then nods, eyes firm as he takes the medallion and moves to sit himself on the ground without jarring his bad leg.

Goody goes about finding the wood quickly. Nothing as neat as the grave markers would’ve been, once upon a time — there’s no stray flat, smooth planks Goody can use, and so they’ll have to make do with the thickest branches he can find and strips off his pants that are basically shorts now. He comes back after, ties the branches together with the strips of cloth, and lets Red etch in the words _Alejandro Vasquez_ as neatly as he can on not a whole lot of space, with not a very sharp swiss army knife.

They make do, though. And by the time they get to sharpening the lower part of the cross to stick into the dirt, the sun is up in the sky, there’s sweat trailing down Goody’s back, Red’s removing the medallion, a rustling in the bushes and voices and footsteps as the medallion slips ‘round the cross—

“Goody, Red, what the _fuck_ —“

And there, right then, as Goody and Red spin around alike to stare into the eyes of Billy and the other four who’ve just burst through the trees out of nowhere — there’s an _almighty_ gust of wind, strong enough to rustle leaves right off the trees, enough that they have to shield their eyes —

And suddenly, there’s a familiar man standing before all of them. And he’s beaming.

“ _Gracias_ ,” the man — no, _Vasquez_ says, eyes shining with unshed tears even in his ghostly translucence, arms extending outwards in gratitude, “ _He vuelto a casa. Gracias. Las palabras no pueden expresarse_.”

They’re all staring, Goody knows that. Himself and Red, in an odd mixture of awe and _relief_ , himself filled with the sudden urge to weep, to hold this friend he swore he never met and tell him he’s _missed_. Billy, Sam, Jack, Joshua, all standing at the treeline, in their own form of disbelief and confusion and _recognition_ that Goody knows now, that he recognized in himself and Red, and Vasquez is watching all of them, seemingly unperturbed by their expressions.

Surprisingly, it’s Red who replies first, trying to get up on his leg and wincing until Goody comes to his senses to help him up. “Pain in the ass,” Red grunts, looking directly at the dead man, “Piece of shit.”

The ghost is a friend. _Has_ to be a friend, because he only laughs, loud and bright at Red’s words, infectious enough that even Red is smiling, eyes glistening with something Goody will allow them not to name.

“He’s right, you know,” Goody muses, “Sent us wandering all over hell ‘n creation just to find you.” Pause. And then, “But I’m glad we did.”

“ _Lo sé. Gracias. Estoy tan feliz de verte. Todos ustedes._ ” Vasquez says, grinning, turning to look at the other four. And then he steps forward, towards Red and Goodnight, arms outstretched and —

And Goody can’t feel anything, not really anything solid, but he feels _warmth_ somehow, as Vasquez hugs them, flooding him with emotion so rich and palpable that he doesn’t realize he’s crying until Vasquez has moved on towards the other four, holding each of them in turn.

Then Vasquez walks, all of their eyes trailing him, as he moves to his grave marker. Turns back to them, with an air of finality, and a smile that makes the edges of his eyes crinkle.

“ _Nos veremos de nuevo algún día. Lo prometo_.”

And then —

He’s gone.

 

* * *

 

 

“Excuse me, but what the _fuck_ just happened?”

“For the last time, Joshua,” Sam grunts, “We’ll talk about it once we get back to safety, and Red to a _hospital_.”

Red makes a noise of affirmation from where he’s being held up by Joshua and Sam both, and Joshua makes a groaning sound as he continues to do as he’s told. Goody cracks a smile at it — truth be told, he’s grateful for the time they have to get back. He’s exhausted, and as much as he’s always loved spinning tales, this is one he needs time to recharge from before he can talk about it. He feels like he’s aged a million years since the night began. Hell, the only reason he’s still upright is because of his beloved, holding him up and looking amusingly like the most worried, dangerous mother hen Goody’s ever seen, Jack trailing behind them just in case (though he doubts Billy would let anyone else touch him right now.)

He’s grateful, as always, that Billy is around. When all was said and done and questions started being flung out rapidfire, all Goody could think of was _oh god, Billy_ , and practically collapsed into his husband’s arms. He thinks that may be why Billy’s refrained from asking about what happened so far — he knows Goody’s too tired to explain just yet. He wouldn’t even know where to _begin_. And Red’s gone back to his usual state of quietness, looking just about dead on his feet.

They walk, slow and steady back to the campsite, mostly quiet minus the grumbling Joshua keeps up — at least until they stumble by the creek, at which point Goody abruptly stops walking, staring to his side.

“Hey,” comes Billy’s voice beside him, quiet and concerned beyond reasonable measure, “Goody?”

Goody looks on for a moment longer, before he finally shakes his head and shakes it off, smiling up at Billy after.

He doesn’t say _when did this bridge appear over this creek?_ He doesn’t point at the cabin some many feet down, the one he and Red had just been in only hours before, the one that is now dilapidated, fallen apart, roof crumbled in and looking its age, covered in moss and mold. He doesn’t.

Instead, he just says, “Nothing, cher. Let’s keep going. I need a week of sleep to get over tonight’s little adventure.”

Billy’s lips purse into a thin line — at least until Goody pecks them, and they soften, Billy moving in to kiss him properly after. “Okay,” Billy says after, easing them over the tiny ramshackle bridge, “Okay.”

( Later, in the van and down to the hospital, when Red finally asks how the others managed to track them — well. No one can blame them, certainly, for cracking knowing smiles and then into laughter when Sam just shrugs and says, _gut feeling_.

There’s a lot to uncover, later. So much to think about, to research about — a life they don’t remember living, a friend they don’t remember having, but.

Later. All for later. For now — Goody’s content to be with his friends again. The people he holds dearest in his life. And as he clasps Billy’s hand and nods off against his shoulder in the lull-a-lull-a of the bumpy van, he thinks that things are as it should be.

All is finally, _finally_ , well. )

**Author's Note:**

> first of all: happy holidays coffeeandtin !! i hope you enjoyed this !!!
> 
> i'm not super proud of this, it didn't fit the mood i wanted to set and i felt like a lot of things were either overdescribed, underdescribed, or completely inaccurate. still, my brainweirds and time weren't on my side, so hopefully one day i can revisit this idea and come out with a better outcome. i hope you still enjoy this !
> 
> coffeeandtin asked for hurt/comfort with goody and red or vasquez, and also the horror genre. i love both, and i decided, why not mash it into one? the results aren't the best, but i did try. title is a play on words with [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TO78USTtPyo)
> 
> i apologize for any and all mistakes, they're all mine, and i hope i can do better next time. the happiest holidays to all involved, to coffeeandtin, and to everyone reading ! may the new year come with good health, good wealth, and great friends to spend both with.
> 
> vasquez translations (offered by google, so, take all accuracies here w a grain of salt:)
> 
>  
> 
> _[ ¿Puedes escucharme? Oy, Goodnight, despierta, por f— ] Can you hear me? Oy, Goodnight, wake up, please—_  
>  [ llévame a casa ] Take me home.  
> [ quiero ir a casa ] I want to go home.  
> [ No me recuerdas ] You don't remember me.  
> [ Lo siento mucho. No quería que nadie saliera lastimado. ] I'm so sorry. Didn't want anyone to get hurt.  
> [ Todos debemos ir a casa. Ven. ] We have to go home. Come.  
> [ He vuelto a casa. Gracias. Las palabras no pueden expresarse. ] I've come home. Thank you. Words can't express.  
> [ Lo sé. Gracias. Estoy tan feliz de verte. Todos ustedes. ] I know. Thank you. I'm so happy to see you. All of you.  
> [ Nos veremos de nuevo algún día. Lo prometo. ] We'll meet again someday. I promise.
> 
>  
> 
> fun fact: i'm in southeast asia, and everything billy says about the superstitions and being spirited away? very real thing. stay safe in forests, folks !


End file.
